


Professional Growth

by verdant_fire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Bees, Chemistry, Gen, Growing Up, Kid Sherlock, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pirate Sherlock, Retirement, Scientist Sherlock, Sherlock's Violin, Violinist Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 08:31:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8972137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verdant_fire/pseuds/verdant_fire
Summary: Sherlock's vocations over the years, in five 221b's.  (Pirate, Scientist, Detective, Violinist, Beekeeper)





	1. Pirate

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [GoldenUsagi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenUsagi/pseuds/GoldenUsagi) for the beta and support!

Pirates never had to behave. They did what they liked and went where they wished and answered only to their own law, and no one else's. They could be selfish or heroic as it suited them, and no one would dare cast them out just for telling the truth, or mock them for not being stupid enough to be entertained by whatever rubbish had been on telly last night. Pirates didn't need anyone, and neither did Sherlock. He would take to the sea, and no one would miss him. Well. Mummy and Daddy would likely miss him, but Mycroft would understand why he'd left; he could explain it to their parents. Sherlock would come back to visit occasionally. Once he'd found a crew, he would sail round the Atlantic and bring back treasure, and they would forgive him. He didn't belong with other children, and he had become increasingly convinced that growing older would not solve the problem.

Sherlock was exceptional, and more than clever enough to see what the world did to those who were exceptional. So all things considered, he felt this was the best alternative. He would bring his books and maps and manage it somehow. If the world wouldn't give him what he needed, he'd take it. He would navigate to his own society, somewhere he belonged.


	2. Scientist

Adolescence was as brutal as advertised, and very little made sense these days. Other people had never made sense, but now even his own transport was betraying him. Endocrine chaos, growing pains, cracking voice, scattered thoughts: hateful. Fortunately, some things were immutable and unchanging, and while he had no belief in a deity, he believed in this: the planetary waltz of atoms, the elegant periodicity of the elements, the altruism of ions, bonding together in a way human beings would never be able to achieve, though most of his peers were certainly trying. The sciences were reliable, comprehensible, constant. Chemical relationships were the only ones he wished to be bothered with. They had their own beauty, and they were unlikely to end in tears (unless he synthesised a mucosal membrane irritant, but he used a fume hood for those). 

Perhaps the way he felt about chemistry might be something akin to the way others felt when they rhapsodised about romantic love. He was willing to admit the possibility, though he found it distasteful. He certainly couldn't imagine being attracted to any of the idiots around him, and the only intellectual equals he'd found thus far were Mycroft and Mummy. He didn't need friends, or lovers either; he had his own company and a near-infinite combination of reactions. He wouldn't be bored.


	3. Detective

Annoyingly, he can't even take credit for the idea itself. He'd had perhaps too much contact with the police over the past two years, but after the drugs had become truly unmanageable and he'd got clean, he'd still recalled the details he'd pieced together from overheard cases. Once, he had broken out of his cell, wandered to the records room, and solved three cold cases before Lestrade found him, yelled at unnecessary length, and locked him up again. But even while high, Sherlock had been right, and Lestrade had remembered. 

Six months later, thanks to Lestrade's rather unwise faith in people and Mycroft's interference, Sherlock was at his first official crime scene, trying to mask his excitement. The rush of solving a complex problem was almost as good as the cocaine, and certainly the best substitute he'd found. Lestrade had even been convinced to pay him a consultant's fee, which, given the depleted state of Sherlock's trust fund, was embarrassingly welcome. He might, given luck, be able to keep this arrangement going. Certainly Scotland Yard is too stupid to solve its own cases, and it's a welcome novelty to actually be rewarded for what he can do: a fundamental imbalance of the universe, rectified at last. Sherlock hasn't felt this sense of belonging, of _rightness_ , since he was a small boy.


	4. Violinist

He first picked up a violin at age three. He'd found Mummy's disused one in the attic, and had taken to toting it around the house, making, he's told, truly awful noises with it — but never the same noise twice — in his efforts to find out how it worked. Mummy had found him a tutor and a quarter-size violin, and that had been the end of it, or rather, the beginning. He'd accepted the violin as an extension of himself, and let it speak for him when he couldn't.

It was still his primary method of processing inconvenient emotions. For many years, before he'd met John, it had been his only one. Music provided a complete, reproducible library of psychological states in aural form, and his violin was up to the challenge. He loved the violin; it was a demanding instrument, but it rewarded excellence. There was a certain pleasure in knowing that difficulty would transmute itself into beauty, given enough practice.

There's an added pleasure now in playing for John. He obviously enjoys it; he's never been hard to read, and Sherlock finds that John's enjoyment multiplies his. He starts playing John's favourites more often, just to see that wry smile on his face. He's showing off right now with a Ysaye piece, but later, for John, he'll play Brahms.


	5. Beekeeper

The low electric hum of the hives mingles with the sighing susurrus of the sea across the Downs as Sherlock returns to the cottage. John will be awake soon, and it's his birthday. They've been five years in Sussex now, and Sherlock is still a bit amazed that John decided to come with him. He'd not expected it, even after so many years of partnership. But John, steadfast as ever, had proclaimed that someone had to make sure Sherlock didn't blow himself up in a fit of boredom, and he didn't fancy being on his own either, so they'd gone looking for a house, Sherlock still half in a haze of bewildered happiness. And John had stayed, day after day, even when the hives were delivered, which he perhaps should have mentioned to John first, judging from the amount of shouting that ensued. But John forgave him, and started work on his book while Sherlock tended the bees. It was the best arrangement Sherlock could have hoped for, and he was determined not to give John reason to regret it. John was irreplaceable. He was reminded of his good fortune every morning, when John came down the stairs and smiled at him with bleary sincerity — just as he was doing now.

"John," he said, a smile in his voice. "Happy birthday."


End file.
